


Hurdles

by mapleprincess



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Recovery, mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapleprincess/pseuds/mapleprincess
Summary: Hank hasn't shown up to work in two days, so a worried Connor decides to pay his friend a visit.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson & Connor & Sumo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	Hurdles

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!   
> This is my first work in the DBH fandom, and I hope I did those two characters I hold very dear to my heart justice.   
> Be warned that this fic deals with Hank's depression and mentions him having experienced suicidal thoughts, so proceed with caution if those subjects might upset you.  
> Please enjoy!

In the few months that have passed since coming to terms with his deviancy, Connor has experienced a lot of emotions, both negative and positive, faint and intense, hurtful and enjoyable. He’s discovered a whole spectrum of feelings, but he’s gotten particularly familiar with two emotions.

The first is love. Connor knows how complex love is, even for humans, and his understanding of the concept is still a bit vague. He knows the theorical difference between romance, friendship, filial love, and the many other forms love can take; but he’s still having trouble understanding how those definitions apply to his own reality.  
But it’s okay: he loves Hank, he loves Sumo, he loves the friends he’s slowly making amongst the deviants and Detroit’s police forces, and for now, it’s enough. Connor is satisfied to feel that now familiar emotion still rush through him every time he greets Hank in the morning, every time Markus invites him to chat a bit with him and the former Jericho leaders, every time he gets to pet a dog.  
Connor hopes he’ll never get tired of that.

The second one is worry, because of how often he’s had that simulated surge of anxiety and uneasiness creep inside his circuits since November. When his then-new partner found himself in danger, when he had to explain himself to Amanda and chose between his programming and his growing deviancy, when chaos had taken over Jericho and he had to protect his kin.

Or like right now, when it’s 5:35 pm and Hank hasn’t shown up to the police station in two days, nor has he called in sick or to excuse himself.

Hank has been making efforts lately, making sure to arrive before 10 am – or even 9 am on good days. The days he comes in after noon are very rare nowadays, which is why Connor has started to feel a tinge of anxiety yesterday, which only grew since he noticed Hank’s also missing today. The android’s tried to ignore it, of course; there are multiple reasons for which his partner could have missed a day or two of work. Being sick, something happening to Sumo, a family member being in trouble – the list is long and neatly tucked in a corner of Connor’s mind, along with probabilities for each of the possibilities.  
Still, none of those reasons would have prevented Hank from giving a phone call, either to the station or to Connor himself, especially in two days.

Except if something grave has happened to the lieutenant.

It wouldn’t be too farfetched. Even though he’s been watching his diet after his latest appointment with his GP, Hank is still at risk of heart issues and the probability of a heart attack, although he estimated it’s less than 1%, glows in the back of Connor’s digital brain, nagging him more and more as the afternoon passes.

His anxiety – the one emotion he wishes he wasn’t so intimate with – ends up far too inconvenient to ignore, overriding the other tasks Connor’s been busy with, and it’s 5:36 pm when he announces Captain Fowler he’ll be heading home. His officer curtly nods, not really caring about the android’s whereabouts – Connor’s work for the day is done, at least what he absolutely had to deal with, so he doesn’t really need Connor around.

Which is how Connor finds himself in a taxi as the night starts falling on Detroit. The weather has been improving lately, April bringing some sunlight and some warmth back to the city along with the first blooms of spring. Connor finds himself tapping his fingers on his thighs, drumming quickly as if trying to evacuate the uneasy sensation he feels spreading to an increasing number of his biocomponents.  
Connor looks at his hands for a moment, still getting used to having physical reactions similar to human ones. Being deviant, he found when accepting he was more than a machine, is different than simply believing to be experimenting human emotions - it’s developing them for _real_ , the ones that he enjoys and the ones he dislikes, his thirium pump beating faster when he chases a suspect, artificial sweat glistening on his temples when negotiating with a particularly unhinged criminal, his mechanical eyes filling with tears when he shoves Hank out of the way of a bullet and they both end up safe.

Connor’s fingers are still drumming on his knees when the taxi stops in front of Hank’s house. The android exits the vehicle and starts to make his way to the house, aware of how his pace is faster than usual, of a knot starting to tie itself in his throat. Connor knows that if he secreted saliva, swallowing it would hurt, and his mouth would fill with a hint of bile.

The brunette stops in front of the door and knocks sharply. Inside, Sumo barks; Connor’s mind registers the dog’s tone as the one Sumo uses to greet him and Hank, which never fails to make him smile. However, that smile vanishes when no one answers.  
Connor doesn’t give up, knocking louder and announcing himself this time:

“Hank? It’s me, Connor.”

That fails as well, and the android’s anxiety levels start to rise, bringing back memories of one rainy November evening, when in a similar situation he had been forced to break in Hank’s house and had found him lying on the floor, vomit and alcohol dripping down his chin, a gun near his hand with a single bullet in a the chamber.  
Shutting down that particular memory, Connor knocks as strong as he can knock without damaging the door, speaking louder:

“Hank, if you do not open, I will be forced to break a window!”

A few seconds pass, filled with a heavy silence. But finally, Connor’s audio processors pick up on some noise coming from inside the house, and after a few moments, the door opens, revealing his partner.

“What are you doing here?”

Before Connor can answer, he’s scanned his friend. Old habits die hard, and he does so out of reflex rather than to try and understand what happened. He does his best to keep that approach for solving crimes, since he found out that talking with people he likes being around is more agreeable for them both than trying to read them without talking to them.

Hank’s wearing an old shirt and a pair of worn out joggings, which isn’t that unusual at first glance. His hair is more disheveled than usual, and his eyes are the smallest hint of red – no human could tell, but Connor’s visual accuracy is no match for a human eye. The android can’t help but notice Hank’s eyes are a bit puffed, and the bags under them seem heavier than he remembers.

“You didn’t come to work today and yesterday, so I came to check up on you.” the android explains as Sumo makes his way to the porch, greeting Connor by sniffing his hand and demanding pats Connor is more than happy to give him.  
“Is that so.” Hank grumbles, watching Connor’s hand slowly move across Sumo’s thick hair, sometimes stopping to scratch the dog’s back.  
“Yes.” the brunette nods. “I was worried about you.”

Silence settles between them, and neither dares breaking it.  
In the end, though, Hank gives in:

“Well, since you’re here, come on in.”  
“Thank you, Hank.” Connor smiles.

Sumo leaves his side, following his owner inside the house.  
The living room and the kitchen’s curtains are closed, plunging the room in darkness. The second thing Connor notices is the distinct lack of music: usually, Hank likes to listen to jazz whenever he’s home, and there’s almost always music coming from his old speakers, loud or low according to his mood. His nose briefly twitches as it perceives a faint fusty smell, another clue which would have most likely been looked over by a human but doesn’t escape his heightened senses.

Hank lets himself fall on the couch, Sumo climbing shortly afterwards and resting his head in his owner’s lap, his posture both comforting and protective. Connor is still standing, the coffee table between him and his partner, dirty plates and half-empty delivery food boxes scattered all over it.

“How are you doing, Hank?” Connor asks.

The android has countless algorithms stored in his memory, guides to help him have smooth, easy conversations with humans. It had been very helpful at first, especially when he was working as a negotiator between humans and androids, but Connor had soon been forced to tweak those algorithms, to learn to adapt to his interlocutors, to choose his words according to complex intersections of personalities, emotions and circumstances. Seeing someone as an entity unable to be reduced to the mere sum of their parts is a process Connor is still trying to learn, to work on, but he’s relieved to know it’s a common hurdle, even for humans.

Hank had been a particularly tough person to deal with, especially at the rocky beginnings of their partnership, and even now Connor is sometimes at a loss as to how he should behave or talk to him. But he guesses that unpredictability is another characteristic displayed by humans and deviants, one he’ll always have to work with, and that it might not be a bad thing.

Still, all those thoughts aren’t much help right now, especially when Connor realizes how stupid his question sounds, given his understanding of the situation. Hank seems to share his opinion, if the incredulous look the lieutenant is giving him is any indication.

“Well, I’m perfectly fine, thank you for asking, Connor.” Hank answers as he reclines against the back of the couch, his eyes never leaving the android.

Connor doesn’t move, his processors working at full speed to try and determine the best approach. But something turns the dull noise of those algorithms down, urging Connor to listen to his instinct. It’s something he’s still a bit uneasy with, not only because even after months he sometimes finds himself at a loss as to what his deviancy and the very concept of “instinct” entail, but because analyzing situations and people in a cold, factual and objective way is comforting. It allows him to run through possible scenarios, to estimate probabilities, to rely on things he’s certain of, to hide his hesitations and doubts behind numbers and facts.

But that’s not what Hank needs or wants right now, so Connor shuts those programs down, his friend taking priority over his own insecurities and fears.

“You don’t have to lie to me.” the android states, walking around the coffee table and sitting on the couch, Hank between him and Sumo. “I know people are usually expected to answer “fine” when asked how they’re doing, but I think we’re a bit past exchanging courtesies.”

Hank laughs, an ugly snort that quickly dies down but still manages to draw a grin from Connor.

“Yeah, we are.” the officer agrees, scratching Sumo between his ears. “And hey, you’ve seen me shitfaced enough times that I must look decent to you right now.”

Hank looks anything but decent, his greasy hair sticking to his temples, patches of stubble showing in usually shaven areas, food stains on his shirt, smelling faintly of sweat, eyes looking duller than usual.

“With all due respect, you don’t look that great.” Connor concludes, slightly tilting his head. Brutal honesty often works with Hank, and the android likes it that way; he enjoys being able to have direct conversations with his friend most of the time, where neither of them have to dance around things.  
“So those brown-nosing programs of yours _did_ disappear when you became deviant.” Hank states as he nods in approval, still not looking at Connor. “Guess I should have known when you told Reed off the other day.”

The lieutenant lets a short laugh out as he remembers the complete placidity with which Connor had given Gavin the bird before wishing him a wonderful day and making his way to the interrogation room, completely ignoring the other officer’s harsh insults and threats. Connor is tempted to laugh as well, but he knows that Hank is able to look happy even when he’s feeling miserable, so he makes sure to stay focused on his goal and not let himself be led astray by Hank’s ability to keep up appearances.  
But before Connor can give probing Hank about what’s wrong another try, the lieutenant speaks, still smiling but his voice void of any emotion:

“I haven’t taken my meds in a week.”

Connor is caught off guard and blinks rapidly, his LED flashing yellow. Hank stays silent, eyes still looking somewhere in front of him, his throat bobbing as a knot makes swallowing his saliva an annoying task.  
There are a few moments of silence, which Hank breaks once again:

“I figured I’d spare you the trouble of coming up with clever questions to get me to confess and spare me the trouble of having to answer them.”  
“I…”

Several questions pop in Connor’s mind, all of them of equal importance, to the point the android is at a bit of a loss as to which he should ask first. But what seems like eons of reflection to him are only mere seconds, and the android quickly asks:

“Why?”  
“I don’t know, _you’re_ the genius here, figure it out.”

Mere months ago, that answer would have been spat at Connor and laced with contempt, but today Hank’s words sound hollow and the android knows he isn’t being hostile.  
Connor’s warm eyes start to scan the room, searching for clues, but the android almost immediately starts thinking differently, and tries to remember Hank’s behavior during the past few days. Connor believes the two of them are close enough that he can spot something different in the way his friend spoke or acted, something that wouldn’t have seemed out of place at the moment but could, when looking back on it, help him understand the situation.

But running through his memories doesn’t help. In fact, Hank has seemingly been doing better and better with each passing day: since November, the lieutenant has been slowly but surely getting back on his feet, drinking less and less, going on longer walks with Sumo and interacting with more people, showing up to all his therapist’s appointments, taking his antidepressants every day. Connor remembers congratulating Hank on the progress made on several occasions, both to encourage him and because he’s genuinely happy to see his closest friend walking on the arduous path of recovery, at his own pace, step by step.

But if there’s something Connor’s learnt during his last investigations as an emotionless machine, and that he’s done a few times after becoming deviant, is that there sometimes is a huge difference between what can be observed of a person and what is truly boiling inside them. How the most docile of androids can seemingly snap in a second, but had in fact been haunted by their own despair and suffering for months or even years, how he once saw Hank laughing at one of their colleagues’ dirty jokes and then found his friend, drunk out of his mind, sobbing over a picture of his son mere hours later.

Which is why Connor is almost certain that something happened recently, even though Hank has been putting a very convincing façade on.

“I have no idea.” the android answers honestly. He hesitates for an instant, before adding: “Especially since they seemed to be more effective than your last treatment.”

Hank barks a joyless laugh, grabbing one of the small orange bottles lying on the coffee table, shaking it, making the pills loudly rattle.

“This shit can only get you going for so long.” The officer explains, his eyes suddenly burning with something Connor identifies as hatred. “It’s nothin’ more than a fucking chemical crutch.”

He violently tosses the pills, and the bottle crashes against the opposite wall before falling to the ground, making a sleepy Sumo jolt awake and bark, before curling against his owner even more.

“I thought things were getting better.” Hank spits, his hands starting to shake with contained anger. Connor’s LED starts blinking, and his senses are put on alert. He knows the signs preceding one of his friend’s outbursts, and he promises himself to do his best to try and calm the oncoming storm before it can do too much damage. “No more playing Russian roulette on my own, no more blocking the shrink’s number, no more showing up to the station hours late and with a hangover, none of that shit anymore.”

His voice starts trembling as well – not out of fear or anxiety, but because Hank is doing is best to contain his rage right now, his ire towards the rest of the world but mostly towards himself. Connor wonders if he should give the lieutenant his space, but before he can truly think about it his right arm finds himself wrapping around Hank and his torso is turned towards his friend, and Hank does nothing to push him away.

“And then, one day, I find myself waking up and wanting to throw myself under a train for no reason, I start getting those fucking thoughts _again_ , about how nothing in my life is worth it, about how I did jackshit compared to what I still gotta do to get better.”

Words pour out of Hank’s mouth, vibrating with disgust and anger, and Connor lets them come out, rubbing a soothing hand on Hank’s shoulder and putting his other hand on his friend’s knee, silently letting him know he’s there, that he doesn’t have to deal with his suffering on his own anymore.

“But what if I never get better, Connor?” that’s when a painful hint of fear and sadness start to creep into Hank’s messy and jumbled speech. “What if put all of those efforts into it but I only get a few weeks of somewhat being happy before feeling like worthless shit again, huh? What if it never ends? Look at this!” Hank waves a hand in front of him, showing the coffee table and the leftovers from food he must have got delivered for his recent meals. “Didn’t move from that couch for the last two days except to piss and shit and feed Sumo!”

Bitter, desperate tears are rolling down Hank’s cheeks, and that’s when Connor understands how _deep_ Hank’s sorrow is, on top of his already alarming words. The lieutenant _never_ allows himself to cry in front of anybody, not even his partner and dearest friend, and Connor knows how truly worrisome the situation is if Hank loses his composure like that.

“I’m done, I’m fucking _done_ trying. Taking this shit everyday-” Hank grabs another of his prescription bottles and sends it flying across the room; this time the bottle opens midair and the pills scatter all over the floor. “and it’s not doing its job, no matter _how hard I try_!”

The last words are yelled more than they’re spoken.

Tears are now pooling at the corner of the android’s eyes, and he moves his arms to hug Hank as tight as he can, feeling how uneven Hank’s breathing is as the officer’s torso rises and falls erratically against Connor’s upper body. Sumo moves out of the way, hopping down the couch and lying on top of his owner’s feet as if to anchor him down in reality, to keep him from drowning in his sorrow.

“This is what I get for thinking I can make it.” Hank’s voice rings loud in Connor’s ears. “I hope, I try, and I get my fucking dreams smashed to pieces.”

There are countless things Connor could say right now. “It gets better”, “take your medication every day and it will help”, “be patient”. But he’s sure that Hank’s already heard them plenty of times from his therapist, and that although they’re all true and important to keep in mind, it’s neither what Hank wants nor what he needs to hear right now.

“That’s not true, Hank.” Connor starts, worry clear in his voice, when he’s certain his friend is done vomiting his resentment and weariness. “I won’t pretend I fully understand how you’re feeling, because even though I have several thousands of articles and testimonies about major depressive disorder stored in my memory, it will never compare to your experience of it.”

Hank doesn’t seem to agree, but he isn’t protesting either, so the android keeps talking, not moving from the embrace he and Hank are locked in, holding on to each other.

“It’s not your fault you haven’t been doing well lately. And it doesn’t mean that your efforts are lost either. It’s actually not that rare for recovery to be hard and far from a simple, smooth line going straight from depression to being cured, but I’m aware of how unfair and hurtful it must feel.”  
“You’re fucking right.” Hank mumbles, a few tears still running down his reddened face. “It hurts so _much_ I wish it would just kill me.”  
“I’m sorry about it.” Connor adds, his eyes tightly shut and his mind trying to push away terrified thoughts of losing Hank. The officer hugs him even tighter, knowing that Connor’s words aren’t empty, that he’s not simply reciting prewritten sentences that might be appropriate in the moment. “But even though you have to go through something so difficult, it doesn’t mean you’ll never stop hurting. You’re doing so much efforts, and you’ve done so much progress in just a few months! It must be exhausting, being stuck with this disease and still fighting as hard as you can.”  
“It is.” Hank nods in agreement, slowly letting go of Connor, finding himself face to face with the android he’s grown to be so fond of. “It’s fucking _exhausting_ , and whatever I do, it’s never enough-”  
“It’s _more_ than enough, Hank.” Connor says firmly, his hands settled on the lieutenant’s shoulders, brown eyes looking deeply into blue ones. “ _You’re_ more than enough. No matter how hard things get, at work or with your depression, you keep fighting and getting back up. Believe me when I tell you that not a lot of humans would be able to do that in the same circumstances.”

Silence falls between them once more, but it’s not a heavy weight painfully resting on their bodies and leaving them anxious and ill-at-ease. It’s the comfortable calm that follows when a storm has calmed down, when the waves are slowly beginning to move to their familiar rhythm again. Connor moves, sitting next to Hank with an arm around his friend’s shoulders, Sumo climbing back on the couch and laying across the two officers’ laps.  
Connor has never seen the lieutenant be so vulnerable before, and he knows it must have been grueling for Hank to break down like that; he hopes it’s done more good than harm.

When Hank’s breathing has resumed at his usual pace, the android is the one to speak first:

“I wish there was something more I can do, anything-”  
“Shut the fuck up, Connor.” the lieutenant cuts him, tears starting to dry under his red, puffy eyes. “There aren’t a lot of humans or androids who would deal with an old wreck’s shit like you just did or would even listen to me, and that’s already something I’m very thankful for.”  
“Hank.” the android smiles, a smile as warm as he can give, deciding to go over Hank’s jab at himself. “I’m your friend, and I’m happy that I was glad to help you talking about it. But…”

Hank looks puzzled, wondering why Connor’s smile suddenly gives way to a more serious expression.

“You shouldn’t have to stay alone with all of this pain, Hank. Know that you can always talk to me. I promise I’ll always listen.”

Something shines in Hank’s eyes, and Connor can’t tell if it’s a tear or something else, a hidden emotion that the lieutenant can’t voice. The android smiles again; then he gets up, takes a look at the coffee table and at the kitchen.

“Since I’m here, how about we clean up for a bit? Then I can make you something to eat, or we can order dinner, your choice.”  
“Sounds good to me.” Hank agrees, getting up as well, stretching his arms a bit. “We’ll decide later for dinner, let’s throw out all of his garbage first.”

The lieutenant gives Sumo’s back a few strokes, before making his way to the kitchen where he grabs two trash bags and checks the fridge.  
And as Connor watches his friend loudly complain about needing to buy eggs again, he can’t help but notice that relief is, thankfully, an emotion he’s also come to know fairly well.

**Author's Note:**

> Things are about to get personal, so um yea I'm going to be giving a bit of background for this fic.
> 
> I've been dealing with depression since september 2015, and although things have globally been getting better since then, there are times where I have relapses and end up in a bad spot again, even though I've done progress and still fight as hard as I can. 
> 
> In summer 2019 I did one of the worst things you can do when you have a chronic illness, which is abruptly stopping to take your medication. I was tired, fed up, felt like the meds weren't working anymore, I hated having to take them every day and be reminded I'm ill. So I stopped, and of course I felt like utter shit. But at least I told my mom what I did, so we went to see my GP together (since my psychiatrist was on holidays) and we agreed that for the next week my mom had to give me my meds and I had to take them in front of her. It worked, and since then I haven't stopped taking them. 
> 
> And the last weeks have been pretty bad for me. I've been dealing with so much stress at college and work that I've been unable to cook properly for myself, that I have spent a week playing video games 7-8h per day just to stop thinking. I think I'm doing a bit better right now but I needed to get that out of my system and this was the result. 
> 
> On a brighter note I love Hank and Connor's relationship. My first DBH playthrough was entirely blind and I got Connor's best ending I was so happy!!!   
> On the other hand yesterday I finished the machine!Connor path and I geniunely felt guilty and hurt when taking certain decisions (Hank's suicide in particular really got to me, I didn't cry like when I finished Death Stranding and ugly cried for an hour, but I was haunted for the whole evening)
> 
> OK I'm done rambling now I'm going to make myself pasta and listen to Pastel*Palettes to cheer myself up


End file.
